


Friendship

by ninamalfoy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Betaed, M/M, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 05:56:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamalfoy/pseuds/ninamalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's your best friend. He knows you better than anyone in the world. He knows what makes you tick. He knows what you need - right <i>now</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friendship

**Author's Note:**

> First published on LiveJournal on February 8th, 2005.
> 
> Not true in the least bit. I'm just borrowing their public persona to play.
> 
> Many, many, many thanks to cerulean_eyes for being such a dedicated and lovely beta! *blows kisses* You're the bestest, darling. :-)

You're not suprised. Not in the least. Not when he leans down. Not when he asks for permission with a look. Not when he traces your jaw, cups it. Not when you feel warm lips on your own. Not when you begin to respond to the quiet, reassuring kiss. Not when you feel the soft fabric of his faded Dortmund sweater under your fingers and the heat of his body beckons to you.

He's your best friend. He knows you better than anyone in the world. He knows what makes you tick. He knows what you need - right _now_.

The kiss grows more insistent; teeth brush against each other, tongues meet hesitantly for the first time, stroke each other. His hair is still wet as you brush your fingers through it, your hand grasping his shoulder, feeling the corded muscles. You don't feel the contours of his lean body - you _sense_ them by touch and shudder and memories from past hugs and cuddles and visuals. The layers of clothing between you have become insignificant, non-existent. You want to crawl into him, physical restraints notwithstanding. His hands return the favor and dip under your t-shirt, tracing your spine, splaying his biggentle hands on your back. You know that the intensity you feel in his touches is mirrored in your own.

'Metze,' you sigh, coming up for air. He tightens his hold on you, as if he were afraid that you'd push him away and run for the hills. But nothing could be further from your mind now. Especially after this. You don't know exactly what it is, other than it is just another expression of your love – albeit a slightly different one, yes, as you usually made do with warm hugs and just being _there_ for each other, but this isn't bad. Not at all.

In fact, you realize surprised, you can't imagine how you went on for such a long time without it, because it feels so natural. It feels as if that is how it was meant to be for eternity, like in the fairytales – 'and then they lived forever and ever and if they haven't died, they're still best friends –' but you aren't really best friends now, although you _still_ are best friends, nothing will change that, you just have become something _more_, something special. Something that completes you.

And all these thoughts are flitting through your brain in the instant of a millisecond, and you look straight up into his warm brown eyes, full of compassion and so much love that you think you stumbled into another reality, because this can't be the Metze that you used to horse around with, the Metze that you played pranks on and who retaliated in kind, the Metze who infected you with his energy and his drive to make the world a better place, by bit and bit, all this is suddenly gone. Because this is a man deeply in love. And it's not just everyday love, that you can see. It is the love that one finds only once, the love that will stay with him during his entire life, the only love that he will remember when he has forgotten everything else. And this love is for you.

And you're, strangely enough, not freaked out by this. You're – glad. Because it feels so right, this is how it should be, absofuckinglutely right, and Metze smiles. Returns your big fuckingglowinghappy smile with one of his, complete with the little crinkles around his eyes, and then he chuckles, 'Thought you'd run amok, Basti,' and you laugh, carefree, laugh like you haven't laughed for a long time, and say, 'Not without you.' _Never_ without you. He lightens up, and you think you have never seen him like that, never so happy, not even when he won a difficult game of snooker against you in Turkey and was dancing around the table, in dork-style. He is more than just happy. Because he finally has got what he wanted, all along. You.

He claims your mouth in another kiss, and this time he doesn't hold himself back, goes full throttle, like he does on the pitch, throwing himself with fervor into playing the beautiful game, and why the hell do you think about football now when this is a kiss that makes you hang onto him and gasp and bite and you're achingly hard, yearning for release and he pulls you even tighter to him, one of his hands slipping under the waistband of your training pants to land on your bare arse, gripping you, and it's like an electric shock and it's fuckingrightohyesohyesthere because there's friction and you moan into his mouth, writhing against him holding you in place, flush against him, against his own erection, hothard through your pants.

It's fucking heaven, and your tongues wrap around each other, slickwethot, and one of his fingers slides into the crack of your arse, and it runs through you like a fuse alighted, down your spine and your cock jerks, and you know that you both are going to come, and come hard.

Your hands are roaming free on his back, alternately graspinclutchingslipping because of the sweat, and you just can't do anymore, you can't stand this, this almostnotenough friction, and, coming up for air and diving right back into the hungrypassionate kiss, you thrust a hand into the non-existing space between you and, fumbling around until you slide your sweaty hand right into his training pants, and there it is, and Metze groans, shuddering all over, devouring your mouth, his hand gripping your neck that hard that you wonder for a millisecond if there'll be bruises.

You wrap your fingers around his hard length, already slick with comesweat, and it feels ohsogood, and it's a miracle that you still can concentrate on jerking him off when he's doing amazing things with his tongue and you set up a steady routine, one that you employ on yourself, too, sliding the foreskin up and down with a little twist of your wrist and he breaks loose, wheezing, whispers 'fasterfuckitfasterohbastilovemygod…' and you obey, sensing that he's very close, almost too close – and suddenly his cock spasms and you feel something wetwarm hit your hand and hear Metze's muffled cry – he bit down on his fist – at the same time.

You're still hard, leaking and aching, but for now you don't care. His cock is now soft in your hand and you gently rearrange it, sliding your hand out of his pants, leaving a glistening streak of whitish come on them and Metze's stomach. He shudders slightly, exhaling. You look at him, wondering if this has changed anything between you.

When you meet his eyes and see the wicked glint in there that means that you'll get your comeuppance, you know that nothing has changed. Because nothing really has changed when he pulls you closer again, flush against him, nothing at all when he cards his fingers through your hair, mouthing your jawline, absolutely nothing when the hand still on your arse now slides around your hipbone and his fingers touch your cock and you gasp, nothing has ever _truly_ changed.

His mouth closes over yours, swallowing your moan at feeling his fingers wrap around your cock, sliding down for the first time, and up, and down, and up, and there's a drought of cool air and you somehow notice - despite all the overpowering sensations - that he has slid down your pants to your knees and you're standing there in all your glory, his hand wrapped around your dick, jerking you off, hardhotfast, just like you want it, and you shudder and gasp and your hands clutch on his shoulders, holding onto him because it's the only thing that prevents your legs from giving out under yourself, and then you feel something huge rising, sizzlingwhitehot, and just before you scream you know that it's the biggest orgasm that you ever had, and then it's hitting you with the force of a thousand fiery suns and you can't hold yourself back anymore.

The next thing you notice is that Metze's arm is still around your shoulders and your pants are pulled up back; you wriggle to give him leeway.

'How many people heard me?', you sigh. He will never let you live that one down.

'Better think up a _very_ reasonable excuse for the screaming,' he smirks. 'Not that I minded, by the way.' And he kisses you softly, ohsogently, and you respond in kind.

There's friendship, and there's _friendship_.


End file.
